The Phoenix
by Jennifer N
Summary: And so she allows the drugs to overtake her, permits the doctor to do what he has been paid to do." Sydney's return to her old life. COMPLETE


**Title:** The Phoenix

**Author:** Jennifer N (jennifer_n97@hotmail.com)

**Summary:**  "And so she allows the drugs to overtake her, permits the doctor to do what he has been paid to do."  Sydney's return to her old life.  1/1

**Category:** Angst.  As always.  Maybe someday I will write non-angst . . . but don't hold your breath . . .

**Spoilers:** Everything in the _Alias_ universe is fair game.  (Is that vague or what?)

**Rating:** PG-13

**Distribution:** CM, SD-1, ff.net

**Disclaimer:**  _Alias_ does not belong to me.  But then, you knew that, didn't you?

**A/N:** Talk about plot bunnies coming out of nowhere . . . this one appeared a few hours ago and it's already written and posted!  *shudders at the plot bunny*  

Thanks to **Becky** for looking at this bit by bit over IM.

**The ****Phoenix**

She opens her eyes, her face wet with tears.  Even though her memory is fuzzy, she knows what her dreams must have been about.  Names, faces, people she doesn't know anymore swirl around in her mind until she finally concedes that she must get up.

She rises from the bed, taking one last look at the angel that hovers over her, and prepares for the day ahead.  She brushes her teeth and applies her makeup.  She stuffs her brown hair—she just dyed it last night—under a short blonde wig, one of her favorites.  She quickly dresses and glances one last time around her haven.  Everything is in its place, she finally decides.  She picks up her bag and closes the door behind her, locking it firmly.

She hails a taxi downstairs and watches the streets of Rome float past her as she allows herself to recall the few good memories she has of the last few years of her life.  They are all here, wrapped up in this city that she thinks she finally discovered during her extended stay.  She allows them to wrap her up as if in a cocoon, protect her and shelter her from the horrors that lie ahead.

She tips the driver and struts into the airport.  She easily makes it through customs and a short time later is airborne.  Her destination is Hong Kong.

It is the first step in her long trek home.

*********

She was working with Simon the first time she heard of this doctor, this procedure.  The ability to wipe away one's memories fascinated her, kept her awake long after Simon lay asleep beside her.  She quietly researched the operation over the next few months.  She surreptitiously studied the doctor and his background; the procedure itself and the expected outcome; patients who had had the procedure done themselves.  In the end she decided it could be a viable option.  An option costing a small fortune—not that she was a destitute woman in this new life as Julia Thorne, but the price was approaching the ridiculous.

She knew she couldn't leave yet, but nevertheless began making her plans.  The money she skimmed went into a new account.  The intel she was acquiring began to slowly disappear, hopefully forever if things went well.  Later on she got her affairs in order both in London and Rome.  She filmed the file to send to Kendall.

She bought the brown hair dye.

It was then that it finally hit her, as she gazed at her reflection in the bathroom.  Soon she wouldn't have to pretend anymore.  She could be Sydney again.  Not Julia.  She could wear her hair long and dark and straight again, bring her voice back to its normal pitch.  She could finally pull her father out of prison.

But she would have to say goodbye to Irina.  Not Mom, but Irina.  The closest she ever came to acknowledging their relationship was the one time she casually mentioned their resemblance.  She watched her mother's eyes flash with recognition, studiously ignored the tears that crept into them as she saw the hope there, the anticipation that soon Julia would connect the dots and realize it was more than a passing likeness.

And she would have to see Vaughn.  A _married Vaughn.  Not married to her, but married to _her_.  That woman.  Lauren.  She shuddered each time at that thought.  Even knowing what she knew about their relationship, it still made her sick inside.  She can only imagine what her reaction will be when she returns from the dead, unaware of what truly lies beneath the surface._

She knows returning to her old life will be difficult at best.  Everyone who is still there is different, changed by the two years that have since passed.  And then there are those she will never see again.  Will.  Francie.

She has mourned her best friend a thousand times in a thousand different ways, and it still haunts her.  The one person whom she thought was still untainted by her hellish existence, dead.  Savagely murdered.

She still doesn't know for sure when it happened.  When her best friend was replaced with a double, her body waiting for the fire that would overtake their apartment.  She has her suspicions, but she can't be certain.  Maybe it was right after the Alliance fell.  Or maybe not.

The only thing she does know with absolute certainty is that people change a lot in two years.  She has been no exception.  But she is hoping to change that.

If this operation is successful, she will have the body of a thirty-year-old woman.  The memory of one who is twenty-eight.  And that is fine with her.

Removing two years is the only way she can be certain she will live to see thirty-one.

*********

She carries her one small bag through the airport in Hong Kong and to the waiting vehicle outside.  She is quickly driven through the city, driving at almost warp speed, she thinks, as if that will take her back to the past even faster.  When she arrives at the facility she is escorted through a myriad of hallways to an office with a large, wooden desk and three oversized chairs.  She sinks down into one of them and waits for the doctor to see her.

Their conversation is a formality to both patient and doctor.  He reviews the procedure with her once more and makes her sign her name at the bottom of a dozen documents.  She scribbles her alias with a flourish—it will be a relief to write in her own handwriting again, she thinks—and she opens her carry-on and retrieves a large stack of bills.  It is larger than she feels he deserves, but if it works it will be worth it.

They review what she has insisted must take place after the surgery.  She has brought the clothing she wants to wear once she is released into the world again; she can't be certain how long it will be before she comes to her senses and tries to get help, and she's always been cold-natured.  She has him repeat to her the name Kendall and the confirmation word Looking Glass and instructs him to make sure she knows these two things before she is escorted off the premises.  She is smart enough not to give him her identification number or real name and savvy enough to threaten him with the wrath of Irina Derevko if he doesn't conveniently forget this information the next day.  Not that her mother knows where she is or what she's doing, but her name wields power, and she is more than happy to borrow it.

At last both parties are satisfied, and the doctor leaves the room to prep for the surgery.  A nurse escorts her down the hall where she discards her clothes and picks up a standard hospital gown.  She winces at the scar on her abdomen as she does every time she sees it.  She wonders what her new self will think of it, if she will ever know the truth.

She hopes not.

Sighing, she slips the gown over her head and lets it settle around her body.  She ties it as best she can behind her and opens the door to tell the nurse she's ready.

Ready to get this surgery over with, ready to put the last two years behind her, ready to embrace the people she loves.  Married or not.

*********

She rests her head on the foam pillow and watches as the nurse puts the IV in her outstretched arm.  She thinks she can spy the tube they will be putting down her throat once she is asleep, and she grimaces.  There is no telling what her voice will sound like when she is finally out of this mess.  

She feels a burning in her stomach, an odd sensation that tells her the anesthesia is taking effect.  The doctor wants her to count back from five, and as she does, her life—her _whole_ life—swirls around her one final time.

_Five . . ._

Her first meeting with Simon.  A meeting he still recalls with that cocky grin of his.  She hates to admit it, even now, but he's right—they couldn't keep their hands off each other.

_Four . . ._

She was surprised at how easily the knife sliced through the clothing and flesh as she gutted that anonymous man—she never did find out who he was—while Cole watched her.  She darkly thought to herself that Cole must have been so proud of his Pigtails.  She had certainly come a long way.

_Three . . ._

She allowed herself a small amount of pride for her residence in Rome.  If she couldn't be in the States, she wanted to be somewhere she could be comfortable, someplace she could have a connection.  Italy wasn't an obvious choice; France or Canada or even Russia would be considered more likely countries to search for her.  But Rome was her haven, her safe place amidst all the turmoil and struggle and hell of the last two years.  It was the only place that wasn't violated.

_Two . . ._

She was trained in the methods of torture in her days at SD-6.  How to efficiently extract information from an unwilling participant.  How to survive that same extraction if she was unfortunate enough to be the victim.

Nothing she ever witnessed or read about or even imagined came close to what she lived during her imprisonment.  It was her worst nightmares amplified by so much that it made her nightmares look happy and childlike in comparison.  Maybe she was naïve—or at least, as naïve as she could be in this business—but she never thought she would undergo something so grueling, so arduous, so debilitating.  She can understand now with a clarity she didn't have before why so many people give up, kill themselves, welcome death.

It is by far a better alternative than what she lived through.

What she is risking her life to forget.

_One . . ._

Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end.  For her, this is where the story of her two years begins—at the ending of her old life.  The day she sat strapped in a vehicle, so close to the people she loved most, and yet so far away, paralyzed, unable to move or run or cry out.  She shared in their anguish, understood far better than her captors did that the look on her father's face showed more emotion than a wailing, hysterical person would.  That the muted sobs of an old friend conveyed what his bumbling, rambling ways always did.  That the hug shared between two best friends indicated the enormity of their loss.

That the expression on his face after her ashes blew away showed his love in more depth than she had ever seen before.

She closes her eyes and slowly sinks into oblivion.  This is why she is doing this.  It is not to simply forget.  It is not to merely push away the pain.  For she knows that no matter where she is or who she is, there will always be an element of heartbreak deep inside her soul.  But as much as she has been hurt in her life, as much as she has cried and wailed and sobbed and shaken her fist at the sky, she knows she must eradicate these two years.  It is her only means of survival.

And so she allows the drugs to overtake her, permits the doctor to do what he has been paid to do.

Many hours later it is all over.

Julia is dead, and Sydney is reborn.

She is deposited two days later in the middle of the city, lost and disoriented.  She sinks to the ground in an alley somewhere, unknowingly feeling the consequences of such an invasive surgery.

She can only hope that she will come to her senses soon.

It is a matter of survival.

~~~fin~~~


End file.
